


Time Heals Nothing, It Just Buries The Wound

by tearwreck



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cutting, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, Survivor Guilt, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28407024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tearwreck/pseuds/tearwreck
Summary: His tongue was sharp and his stubbornness great, yet the loathing towards himself was greater. Despite holding his head ever high, his self-image was low. He would always think of how it should have been him instead of his mother.!Trigger warning for self harm and attempted suicide!
Relationships: Idril Celebrindal/Tuor, Maeglin | Lómion & Tuor, Maeglin | Lómion/Tuor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Time Heals Nothing, It Just Buries The Wound

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a quote from the song "End Of Life" by the band Death Spells. This oneshot is merely a sort of coping mechanism. If any of those topics might trigger you, don't risk it and don't read it.   
> Please sit down, drink some water and take care of yourself. You're loved, you're important and you matter. You may be going through hell right now, but there will be brighter days. Keep on fighting.  
> There's always hope.  
> — tearwreck

Maeglin did not know how it had come to that but it had happened. It started out with slightly nervous, but harmless scratching underneath his sleeve in stressful situations or when feeling a sense of failure. Then it had continued with him scratching the inner side of his elbow all bloody. That had never stopped either though.  
After a rather short while his fingernails just weren't enough anymore. He had taken to letting small blades run over his skin, barely cutting it at first... But that changed very soon. Now the blood was gushing out of his wounds, as the prince of Gondolin kneeled on the floor. He would have needed stitches indeed. He would have needed medical attention, but how would he explain that to the healers? 

His tongue was sharp and his stubbornness great, yet the loathing towards himself was greater. Despite holding his head ever high, his self-image was low. He would always think of how it should have been him instead of his mother. Of how he should have been executed instead of his father — after all, the arrow was supposed to kill him. So this was his fault... Wasn't it? With every passing day, the striving for his own end grew. Though he was the next in line for the throne... Who would want a king, a ruler like him? He used to be confident about taking over the throne of Gondolin in case anything happened to Turgon, but now? All there was left, was the heavy and burning desire to lay himself to rest to never wake again. 

The physical pain was nothing compared to the mental grief and agony he experienced each and every minute of his being. His cousin despised him and he was often left out, because he was "the ruined child", the outcast to others in the white city, though he was the prince. They would treat him with respect when being face to face with him, but the way they talked behind his back was cruel. He did not want to take it anymore. There was also a rumour, that he was in love with his cousin, but that was a lie. They always lied. And it broke him and it ached to the bone.

The cold floor of his forge made him slightly shaky, as he took the small dagger again and slowly let it glide into the flesh near his wrist, pushing ever deeper. Thinking about it now, it may have been the pain and the blood loss, which made him shaky. His long black hair was hanging into his face; a face that held nothing, no emotion or grasp. There were silent tears spilling from his eyes and running over his cheeks. In all the years of his existence and in his pain he had learned one thing:  
Time heals nothing, it just buries the wound. 

Now the crimson blood from the many cuts dripped to the floor. Just as he wanted to add one more, the blade of his own making slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor. So he broke next to it, letting out one loud sob. He simply did not want to be himself. As he curled up on the cold floor, there was nothing giving him any sort of consolation. There was no comfort, for he was alone. Alone with his thoughts and alone with his pain. Well... There was always the shadow of his regrets and trauma, hanging like a heavy cloud over his head.

Just when he wanted to shut his eyes and give in, there were steps, followed by a firm knock on the door of his forge and his eyes widened, as all alarm bells were ringing out in his head. Who could that be?

"Cousin, are you in there?" Idril's voice called out, some kind of annoyance laying within it.   
"My Ada told me to call you for dinner. It will be served in ten minutes, so better come along. You shall not be late again." 

The last time he was late, he was passed out on the floor. But not this time. He was conscious and slowly rose from next to the puddle of his own blood.  
"I am... I am going to be there soon." Maeglin croaked and then panted. He was so dizzy. 

"Hurry then. He does not approve of being late, you know?" Idril lowly muttered, the annoyance still lingering in each and every one of her words.  
Then her steps carried away fairly swiftly.

But Maeglin panicked. How would he fix this in ten minutes? His arm was still throbbing and he did not have any time for bandages. Plus he would have to walk a good over five minutes to his uncle Turgon's halls. The prince got up and just grabbed a towel, pressing it onto his wounds on the right arm, since he was left handed. He did this about three or four minutes. Unfortunately the bleeding did not stop completely, but it somewhat lessened. He could clean up the mess in his forge later. So he thought as he left it and locked his favourite part in the entirety of Gondolin. 

Six minutes. He was slow and staggering in his steps, but he clenched his teeth and made his way upstairs. When he arrived, he was breathlessly holding onto the doorframe. His uncle's and cousin's gaze immediately wandered to him. They had been waiting. Turgon smiled, while Idril slightly squinted her eyes. "You are late. What took you so long? You should maybe train with Tuor." She spat. 

Right. There was another person sitting on the table and Maeglin's heart dropped. There was Tuor, Idril's... Well, he certainly did not know what they were now. But he had always secretly admired him, even though he never showed it... The exact opposite was the case. The man looked Maeglin in the eye, seeking for an answer. But his gaze was not hateful or judging at all. More... Worried. But the prince broke their eye contact soon.

"Do not be so hard on him." Tuor smiled to Idril then and she scoffed as Maeglin sat, still looking down.

"He is always la-" 

But now Turgon cleared his throat, shooting his golden haired daughter a warning glare, while lifting his knife and fork from the table. He did not endorse fights at his table. "Enough. Let us eat. You are not here to scold your cousin." 

Maeglin looked at his plate and sighed softly, as he picked up the silverware with shaking hands. Nobody seemed to notice this though (or so he thought), so he at least tried to eat a bit, even though he felt unable to under the judging gaze of Idril. Plus his stomach felt sick and his wounds hurt, but that he could ignore very well. 

But Tuor noticed indeed. Something just did not feel right about this situation. Maeglin's eyes were slightly puffy and reddened, plus he was shaking? Something was terribly wrong now. The prince looked rather miserable. The long, ebony hair was loosely hanging into his pale face and he looked tired. So tired.   
But the man did not want to mention it. Maeglin tended to get very defensive about those things. Now Tuor looked over to Idril. She was disapprovingly looking at her cousin. The elleth had never liked the younger prince and despised him even more after the rumour of him being in love with her had been going around. The man laid a hand on her shoulder, giving her a look, which said something along the lines of: " Come on, he has not done anything."

Maeglin was miserable indeed. He felt the fabric of his tunic being stained with his blood, since the sleeve was getting warm and wet, then utterly cold and wet. He shivered and even dropped his fork. All eyes were on him now and the ellon lowered his head in shame. "I apologize." He croaked with a hoarse voice and rose, shoving his chair back.  
"Thank you for the meal, uncle. I am going to head- head back to my forge, for- for I have something to finish." He muttered then, his voice shaking and his breath quickening. 

"Very well then, you are free to go." Turgon smiled. "But you shall not overwork yourself and forge all night long, young elf." He then spoke with a stern, but loving expression and tone.  
The lord did not notice, that anything could be wrong in the slightest though.

Maeglin slightly bowed and stumbled out, even though his plate was not empty, not being able to control it anymore. That was the last red flag Tuor had needed. The man rose as well, since his plate was indeed empty anyway. He first looked over to the king and then to his fair daughter.  
"I deeply apologize as well, but his behaviour troubles me, for he seems a bit off, I will make sure, that the prince does not fall down the stairs. Maybe I can convince him to take a break." 

"I think he is perfectly fine, he is probably not hungry and just cannot handle- Tuor!" Idril called after the man, but it was too late. He was already hurrying after the prince. She just rolled her eyes. 

Turgon shrugged it off and smiled at his daughter. "What an honourable man!" 

Maeglin fled down the stairs, eager to head back to his forge — eager to finish what he had started. The prince had decided, that no one would miss him if he cut too deep. Suddenly he heard steps behind himself and panicked. What if it was Idril? No... Those steps were way too heavy for the light elleth. Maybe his uncle Turgon? This thought was even worse and he tried to run faster, when he was on even ground again. But suddenly he was grabbed by the arm... The right one... Close by the wrist. He let out a loud gasp, as the pain shot up his spinal chord. 

Tuor immediately let go, when he heard the gasp and noticed, that his sleeve was wet. So he looked at his own hand. It was... Red. Crimson red like blood. Now that explained the metallic smell he beheld throughout the entire meal.  
"My prince-" 

Mentioned Ellon widened his eyes, while his breath quickened and slipped through the door of his forge, knowing full well, that it was too late. Tuor put his foot into the door, before it could fall shut and stepped in. Maeglin had pressed himself backfirst into a corner and looked at him in horror. The man had never seen the elf like that. What had happened to the usually swift and quick-witted son of Aredhel? He now weakly attempted to escape one more time, but the man's arms snaked around his upper body (which was not hard, since Maeglin was fairly small) in deep worry.   
"Lómion..." He spoke the elf's Quënya name, which had been given to him by his mother. 

"Let... Let me go... Leave me alone." The prince quietly begged, but the man would not have any of that.

Tuor slowly took Maeglin's right hand, keeping the other arm around his waist, as the metallic smell got stronger. But the elf protested in trying to pull it away. "No. Please-" 

The man kept a firm grip, not wanting to hurt him in any way. He then slowly loosened the grip around his waist and pulled up the sleeve of his black, bloodstained tunic, revealing the deep cuts and huge scars covering his arm. Maeglin loudly sobbed. A sob filled with clearly noticeable fear and desperation. The man did not understand any of this. What could cause wounds like that? Torture?  
"Now who did this to you, Lómion?" He softly spoke, letting go of his arm.

But Maeglin's body lsot control and legs gave in. He broke to the floor and rapidly shook his head. He couldn't tell him the truth.   
"N-no... No. No. You would not understand. Nobody would. Get- get thee from me, s-second born!" He cried, his voice breaking.

Tuor kneeled down, putting one hand on his shoulder and slowly taking his other hand into his own.  
"I need to take you to a healer. Though I promise, that I will not tell them who did this to you. These wounds need immediate attention. I have to report it to your uncle though, for he surely cannot risk, that they hurt you again."

Maeglin's lips were shaking and he finally made eye contact with the man kneeling in front of him. And so his heavy facade of uttermost hatred cracked.  
"Then you would have to report me..."

That was when Tuor understood him. His eyes widened in shock and he looked down at Maeglin's arm, slowly shook his head in complete and utter disbelief. Though realization had punched him in the face, he could not understand what just happened.   
"So- You... No... Why would one hurt themselves...? Oh Maeglin... I knew, that it is hard for you, but... Eru Ilúvatar..." He spoke, holding the pale prince's hand.   
"Are... Are those all the scars you have?"

Maeglin looked up at the man and swallowed hard. Then he slowly shook his head in in shame. How could it come to this? And why did Tuor even care about him? More importantly, why would anyone? "But... The only fresh ones. I... I am sorry, that... That you had to see this."

"There certainly is no need to apologize..." Tuor muttered, still being in a state of shock and disbelief.  
"Can you promise something, Maeglin? I will bring you to your chamber and get something from the healers. In addition to that I will not tell anyone about this. But in return you have to promise me not to do... This in the meantime. And you let me take all the daggers, in case there are some laying around there. Can you promise that?" He asked, his hand wandering up to the shivering prince's cheek, beginning to gently stroke it.

But Maeglin did not flinch nor jolt away. He even tiredly leaned into the touch and slowly nodded his head, which felt like it was spinning.  
"I can promise for now, but not... Not for forever, son of Huor. You may take... Take the dagger for now, but not keep it." He stuttered out with shaking lips.  
So Tuor gently tucked some hair behind his pointed ear, carefully pulled his sleeve back down and helped him up. 

Taking him to his room, taking his dagger away and getting something that helped was a long procedure indeed, but when he pushed the chamber door open, Maeglin still lay there, now looking up at him. He had not moved since Tuor had left. Not even an ounce. So the man swiftly made his way towards the bed.

"They have given me some bandages, a bit of water along with a towel and a paste, that should help with cleansing it. May I?" He asked, kneeling in front of it.   
The prince weakly nodded, sat up and pushed his teeth into his bottom lip, as Tuor started to clean the fresh blood off of his arm and then rubbed the paste onto it, giving him a reassuring smile and some kind words every now and then.  
"You are going to be fine, son of Gondolin... Is that too tight?" He spoke, wrapping the elf's arm with a bandage.

"A bit I think-" Maeglin hissed in pain and Tuor immediately made sure, that it wasn't too loose nor too tight.  
"Why... Why are you so kind, son of Huor? Why are you doing this for me, despite my general behaviour towards you?" 

"Because I know, that your hate is nothing more than facade. Besides... You have not called me by my name once... Why is that? Tell me truly, I implore." He asked, when he was done with wrapping the Prince's arm.

"Well... I am... I...." Maeglin sighed for he truly could not think of an answer himself.  
"I honestly do not know."

"Speak what is on your mind, pince Maeglin." 

"Well... Tuor... Well I never really thought, that you would come after me..." The elvish prince whispered.

Mentioned man's heart warmed a little, when he heard his own name from the prince's lips. So he tilted his head a bit and pushed some loose strands of hair out of Maeglin's pale face and behind his ear again.  
"But why would I not come after you if I am worried?" 

"Idril. She has grown very... Very fond of you and I know you will make her your wife. Besides... I was planning on finishing what I had started." He croaked, while taking his cloak off, leaving him in his also black tunic. He then laid down in his bed. When Tuor wanted to join, he raised his voice once again.  
"If you plan on staying you shall better lock that door. Or shall they find out about you sleeping in the same bed as me?"

"I will stay with you tonight, no matter what." Tuor smiled, straightened his back and turned the key in it's lock. He then laid down right behind Maeglin, putting his arms around him ever so gently. That was when the elf could not hold it in anymore and started sobbing uncontrollably. But the man did not get up to leave. He gently allowed the prince to roll over and cry into his shoulder, as he himself rolled onto his back.   
"You are going to be fine, child of twilight. And I am very glad, that you did not finish what you have started for my part. I will not let you go."


End file.
